Earl had a point. It was unusual-looking script–cramped, yet with flourishes. “But it has to be from a man,” Frank said. “Why else would she have it hidden in this road kit?”
Earl shrugged. “Have it dusted for prints. Maybe you’ll get lucky again.”
Frank scowled. He didn’t relish another battle with Meyerson over resources.
He looked back at the open box in the trunk. There was still a little first aid kit in there, and he opened it. The usual stuff—he dug through the Band-Aids and cold pack just to be thorough. And then he saw it: an orange prescription bottle half-full of big white pills.
“Look at this, Earl. Bactrim–that’s an antibiotic, I’m pretty sure. Filled at a pharmacy in Lake Placid on September 19th, two days after the birth. She did go to a doctor. She knew she was seriously sick.”
“But wouldn’t a doctor have made her go to the hospital?” Earl asked.
Frank nodded. “He would if he knew what he was up against. Hibbert says any doctor would know a retained placenta can be life-threatening.”
“So maybe this guy didn’t know what was really wrong with Mary Pat, because she didn’t tell him about the birth.”
Frank studied the pill bottle. The prescription label referenced Dr. Stephen Galloway, Cascade Clinic. “Either that or whoever gave her these pills also wanted to keep the birth secret, and intentionally kept her away from the hospital. If they really knew how sick she was, that’s depraved indifference, and it’s a felony.”
Frank put the bottle in his pocket. “I’m going over to the Cascade Clinic to talk to this Dr. Galloway.”
Chapter 16
The Cascade Clinic was a good twenty-five minutes away, on the far side of Verona, but it was the only doctor’s office between Trout Run and Lake Placid. The parking lot surrounding the small, cedar-shake building was full, and Frank walked into a waiting room packed with crying babies, sniffling toddlers and sighing adults. He didn’t want to think about all the germs he was breathing in.
“Sign the log, fill out the yellow form and have your insurance card ready when you’re called,” the woman behind the check-in counter said without glancing up.
“I’m Chief Bennett of the Trout Run police. I need to speak to Dr. Galloway when he’s done with his current patient.”
The woman looked even more exasperated. “We’re terribly busy—can’t it wait?”
“No.”
“All right—go into his office.”
Galloway’s office was a cubbyhole barely big enough for a desk and a bookcase. Frank just had time to check out the diploma on the wall—Georgetown University Medical School—when Galloway entered.
“Yes, what is it?” he demanded, without introduction.
Frank sized him up: early thirties, short and a little pudgy, with shaggy dark hair and a complexion that hadn’t fully recovered from adolescent acne. The brown eyes that met his were intelligent, but wary.
“Frank Bennett, Trout Run police. I’m here about a patient of yours—Mary Pat Sheehan.”
Galloway shrugged. “I see scores of patients everyday. You’ll have to give me a little more clue than that.”
“Well, this one’s dead.” That caught the doctor’s attention. Frank pulled out the prescription medicine bottle. “She died of septicemia after giving birth. You wrote her this prescription. What kind of medication is that?”
Galloway snatched the bottle. “Sheehan? Sheehan? September 19th? The only post-partum patient I’ve seen in September was Fogelson. She was in yesterday for her follow-up appointment and she’s okay.” A fine sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. He punched the intercom button on his phone. “Stacey, get me the chart on Mary Pat Sheehan. Right away.”
Galloway turned back to Frank. “Did you check with the hospital to see who delivered this baby? I don’t deliver babies—I just help out with pre-natal and post-partum care if they can’t make it to Saranac Lake to see an obstetrician regularly.”
“I already know she didn’t have the baby in the hospital. She kept the pregnancy a secret from her family and friends. I want to know if you treated her for this infection after the baby was born.” Frank shook the pill bottle. “What is this?”
“Bactrim is a broad-spectrum antibiotic.”
“So, that’s what you’d give for a post-partum infection, isn’t it?”
“It depends on what was causing it.” The doctor turned and stuck his head into the hall. “Stacey,” he pleaded, “where’s that chart?”
“I’m looking. I can’t find any Mary Pat Sheehan. The only woman “sh” is Mary Sherman.”
“You see–we don’t have a chart on her. Besides, if a teenager had presented with a post-partum infection recently, I would remember that.” Galloway clicked his pen and eyed the door.
“She wasn’t a teenager, she was twenty-eight. And what if she just came in telling you she was feverish and achy, never mentioning the pregnancy. Would you give her that antibiotic?”
Galloway puffed out his chest and tried to look stern. “I don’t pass out antibiotics indiscriminately. Symptoms like that would usually indicate a viral infection, not bacterial.”
“So how do you explain these pills?”
Galloway threw up his hands. “I don’t know. What’s the big deal? It’s only an antibiotic, not morphine or oxycontin.”
“I’ll tell you what’s the big deal.” Frank dropped his voice and took a step toward Galloway. “Someone knew this girl was seriously ill and instead of taking her to the hospital, they wrote her a prescription for an antibiotic to try to patch her up. She died. And I want to know who that person was, all right?”
Galloway squinted his left eye. “Someone could have stolen a sheet off my prescription pad.”
Frank looked at the doctor’s white lab coat. “Take it right out of your pocket, there?”
“Oh, please!” Galloway looked at his watch. “You see how over-worked I am. Maybe I took it out to write a prescription, got distracted, and left it in an examining room. Anything’s possible.”
Galloway’s frazzled irritation was fairly convincing. At any rate, it would be easy enough to check. The pharmacy would still have the original prescription slip on file, and the handwriting could be compared to a legitimate prescription Galloway had written. “What about the nurses?” Frank asked.
Galloway flexed his fingers. Frank noticed he wore no rings. “Elaine’s incompetent, but trustworthy. Connie’s only here three mornings a week, unfortunately. She’s the only one I can count on to do things right.”
Galloway didn’t seem very happy in his work here at the clinic. “You’re not from around here, are you doc?”
“I’m from New Jersey. I agreed to practice in an underserved area for three years to pay for medical school. I have one more year to go.”
That explained the attitude; you couldn’t expect an indentured servant to act like Marcus Welby. “Are you married?”
Galloway frowned. “Engaged. Leah’s in graduate school at UCLA. We try to fly back and forth as often as we can, but it’s tough.”
So, Galloway was broke and lonely. He had been in the area long enough to have known Mary Pat. Under normal circumstances, the young doctor wouldn’t have looked twice at a woman who clerked in a convenience store. But he had the grad student fiancée for long-distance, intellectual chats. Mary Pat could have supplied what was missing close to home.
Frank regarded Galloway with more interest. “You said you don’t deliver babies, but you must know how to, right? Doesn’t everyone learn that in medical school?”
“Everyone does a rotation in obstetrics, and I’ve been in the ER when women have delivered. What are you getting at?”
Frank ignored the question and pressed on. “Do you shop at the Stop'N'Buy on Route 12?”
Galloway edged toward the door. “I’ve bought gas there occasionally, a quart of milk. Why?”
“Mary Pat Sheehan worked there nights. But maybe you know that.”
G
alloway blinked his eyes rapidly. “Why would I know? I never noticed who waited on me.”
“She was kind of a lonely young woman. You’re up here all by yourself. One thing leads to another. Next thing you know, she’s pregnant with a baby she doesn’t want, and you’re delivering it. Only you didn’t do such a good job.”
Galloway’s mouth fell open. “That’s insane!” The words came out broken and squeaky. “You have no evidence of that.”
Frank shrugged. “Give me time. Maybe I’ll find some.”
Chapter 17
The next morning, Frank sat at his desk studying several photocopies. He’d gone to the pharmacy in Lake Placid and got copies of the original prescription for Mary Pat’s Bactrim. After some haggling, he’d convinced the pharmacist to find some other prescriptions written by Dr. Galloway and copy them with the patients’ names blocked out just so he could compare the handwriting. The results were intriguing.
In each instance, the name of the prescribed drug had been printed in block letters, some neater than others. And in each case, the prescription had been signed with an illegible cramped signature. It was hard to tell if the signature on all the prescriptions was exactly the same—he was no handwriting expert—but Mary Pat’s prescription wasn’t an obvious fake. But what really interested him was comparing the doctor’s signature with the name signed on the card he’d found in Mary Pat’s car. Of course, the card had only a first name, whereas the prescriptions had what appeared to be Galloway’s first initial, “S” , and his last name. Was the first letter on the card an “S” and was the letter that dipped down in the middle the “p” in Stephen? It seemed plausible, more plausible than “Doug.”
Doris buzzed him. “It’s your daughter on line one.”
“Hi sweetheart! Happy Birthday!” Frank said. “You’re calling me before I got a chance to call you.”
“I wanted to thank you for the bowl. I love it! Is it from that little shop that was closed the last time I visited?”
“Yeah, I remembered you seemed to like the stuff there.”
“You are so sweet. It’s just beautiful—so original, so different. Did you pick it out yourself?”
“Well, the owner helped me a little.” He didn’t want to go there. “I’m very glad you like it. What else are you doing to celebrate your birthday?”
“The boys built a castle with Legos for me—isn’t that cute? Eric is closing a big deal in South Carolina, so we’ll do something when he gets back.”
“Can’t let a birthday get in the way of a big deal.” The moment the words were out of his mouth he wished he could have reeled them back in. The conversation had been going so well–the last thing he needed was to sound sarcastic about his sainted son-in-law.
Caroline reacted with a predictable, “Dad-ee.”
“I just meant, I hate to see you all alone on your birthday. If I knew, I would have come down and taken you out.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter—I’m a big girl. Or so I’m told.”
Was that a quaver he heard in her voice? “Honey, are you okay? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Don’t be silly. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Caroline, that’s not true. I know something’s bothering you. Let me help.”
“I don’t need you to– Oh, Jeremy, no! What a mess. I’ve gotta run, Daddy. Thanks again for the gift.”
And the phone went dead.
In the silence of the office, he mulled over what Caroline had said, and not said. He struggled to remember when this coolness toward him had started. She’d been fine in the spring, hadn’t she? But maybe he’d been so preoccupied with the Janelle Harvey case that he hadn’t noticed the change coming over her.
Could it be some trouble with Eric? No, that was just his natural mistrust of every man who’d ever shown an interest in his daughter, from the kid who tried to kiss her in the sandbox on up to her husband. The last time he’d seen Caroline and Eric together they’d been embarrassingly affectionate.
Maybe she was sick? A shudder of fear passed through him. Caroline was young and healthy–he wouldn’t even consider that. But when he rejected the obvious, he was left with the nagging worry that he and Caroline were drifting apart because she had no need for him in her life.
The conversation with Caroline, as unsatisfactory as it had been, at least gave him a pretext to call on Beth. After all, she had asked to know how his daughter liked the bowl. And suddenly, the office seemed unbearably small and stuffy.
Frank quickly drove the two miles to Beth’s shop. Relieved to see no other cars parked in front, he entered and followed a humming sound directly to the curtained doorway in the back of the showroom. Pushing the fabric aside, he stood and watched as a pear-shaped vase took form on the potter’s wheel under Beth’s nimble fingers. It grew magically from a lump to a graceful column, with only the slightest coaxing from its creator. She smiled slightly, but her eyes never left the wheel, so he perched on a stool and waited for her to finish.
In a minute or two, the wheel slowed and stopped and Beth looked up. “Sorry, once I start, it’s not easy to stop.”
Frank smiled. “You could say that about a lot of things.”
Beth relaxed. “I thought you might still be mad at me.”
“And that worried you?”
He watched with amusement as she blushed and fiddled with something on her wheel. He was getting better at this flirting business.
“I wanted you to know my daughter really likes her bowl. I thought I’d take you out to lunch to celebrate our success.”
“What a good idea!”
Ten minutes later they were settled in a booth at the Trail’s End. Frank wasn’t thrilled to be perusing their menu again so soon, but food wasn’t really the point of this lunch.
“You should order something vegetarian, Frank,” Beth teased.
“Real men don’t eat quinoa. I’ll have the chicken,” he told the young man taking their order.
Beth settled back in the booth and smiled at him. “You’re very “not-from-around-here.” Tell me how you happened to move to Trout Run.”
So he told her about the spectacular mess of his last case in Kansas City, about Estelle’s sudden death and the loss of his job. And she told him about the slow but steady growth of her business, and the slow but steady decline of her marriage. He barely noticed when his food arrived, and unconsciously ate the artichokes he’d intended to scrape off. Without much arm-twisting, Beth agreed to coffee and a shared piece of pecan pie, which led, somehow, to more talk about books, and hiking, and music. Eventually, Frank noticed their waiter pacing anxiously near the cash register–they were the only two left from the lunch crowd.
“Oh, my! It’s three o’clock,” Beth said. “I’ve got to get back to the store.”
In all this time he’d never managed to bring up Green Tomorrow. Now, all he had left was the brief ride back to Beth’s place. As he paid the check, he thought of casual ways to steer the conversation in that direction.
“So,” he said, guiding Beth through the door with his hand on her back, “how’s Katie holding up after her near-miss the other day?”
“I think it’s made her more determined than ever.”
“Why is that, Beth? After all, Raging Rapids has been there her whole life. Why did it take Nathan Golding coming to town to get Katie all up in arms.” He didn’t add, “and you” but the implication hung there.
Instantly, he felt Beth pull away.
“Sometimes it takes someone with a fresh perspective to open your eyes to a problem,” she said.
“True. But sometimes a person with his own agenda can get others to do his bidding.”
Beth stepped quickly toward his truck and pulled on the passenger door.
Frank came up beside her with the key in his hand but made no move to unlock it. “Are you planning on staying involved with Green Tomorrow?”
“Is that why you asked me out to lunch? To see if you could recruit an informant?”
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“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m worried about you.”
“I don’t need a watchdog, Frank. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I know what I’m doing.”
“There’s something bigger going on here, Beth, something you and Katie aren’t being told.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. Aren’t you curious why Golding targeted a little operation like Raging Rapids as his next project, when he’s involved in much bigger things out West?”
“Nathan grew up in New York. The Adirondacks are the last great wilderness area in the East. He is—was—committed to preserving them for future generations. I feel an obligation to continue his work.”
“An obligation? You hadn’t seen the guy in twenty-five years.”
Beth tossed her long hair over her shoulder. “Don’t be cynical, Frank. It’s not at all attractive.”
Frank unlocked the truck door and yanked it open without bothering to help Beth into the cab. They drove in tense silence all the way to the sign that marked Beth’s road. As he made the turn, Frank glanced over at her. She looked as miserable as he felt. He reached out and took her hand. She looked surprised but didn’t pull away. Steering with one hand into her parking lot, he stopped the truck and turned to face her.
“Look, Beth, I admire you for having strong convictions. Just be aware that not everyone’s motivations are as pure as yours. Someone murdered Nathan Golding, and Katie came damn close to being killed, too. If anything happens that doesn’t seem right, don’t be afraid to ask me for help.”
She brushed her fingertips against his cheek. “I know you’re a good man, Frank. I’m sorry we have to be on opposites sides of this thing.”
Not as sorry as me, he thought as he watched her slip out of the truck.
He didn’t back out immediately, but sat staring at Beth’s shop without seeing it. Why was this so goddam hard? How had his lunch gone from fun and comfortable to angry and defensive?
The Lure: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series Book 2) Page 12
